In the past year, so much has changed. My mom has gone from a healthy, active woman to a frail, sickly shell of who she used to be. Retirement was supposed to be her time to shine. Her plans were to travel, play golf, and enjoy life, all while trying to find me a rich doctor to marry. She can pretty much guarantee I won’t be marrying a doctor, not unless he’s the one who finds the cure to keep her in my life another forty years or more.
Not a week after she retired, she called me complaining of a stomachache. I brushed it off. I mean, how many have I had one that went away hours later? A month after that phone call, she showed up at my apartment with the news. I was so excited to tell her about Jambo, but I could see by the look in her eyes that she had something important to tell me. I cried in her arms; she was consoling me, promising me that everything was going to be okay.
It’s not.
Her last scan showed that the cancer is growing. The last round of chemo didn’t work so they’re trying a new kind. Who knew there were different kinds? It’s like a vending machine full of drugs, and your selection is B-15. Only to find out you chose wrong.
The staff and I are on a first-name basis. I tried to keep a wall up, not wanting to get to know any of them, but after you spend days, even weeks in there, you can’t help but ask personal questions and answer theirs in return. My favorite nurse is Lois. She’s very caring when it comes to my mother, making sure that she’s always comfortable. When I’m running late, Lois steps in and reads to my mom for me. With our many hospital stays and chemo visits, we’ve sailed through an array of romance novels, and while my mother loves the stories, some of them make me blush.
“Ainsley, are you watching?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I shake my head, clearing myself from my daydream. Only it’s not a dream, but the stark reality in which I live at the moment. My eyes focus back on Jambo as the face of her calf appears. More tears of happiness emerge, and I can’t help but start to clap for her. The calf moves slowly out of its mother until the six-foot baby is on the ground with the padding cushioning its fall.
“Oh my,” I say, covering my mouth. “We have a baby, Bruce.” You would think that I had given birth myself with how emotional I am at the moment.
“That we do. From start to finish, Jambo did this in under an hour. Not bad for a first-time mom.” Everyone around us is cheering.
“Now we wait and see if she nurses or if we have to guide them to each other.” My hands clasp together with my thumbs resting against my lips. I study Jambo as she looks at her calf warily.
He or she is covered in sawdust, and the sight is comical and adorable. Jambo takes tentative steps as she nears her calf. She nudges her baby a few times and then starts cleaning.
“She’s a natural,” I say. “And the calf is beautiful.”
“She is,” Bruce says, standing next to me. “I’ll be right back. I want to check the temperature in the room.”
My mother is always cold. It’s a side effect from the chemo. We live in Florida and are likely the only people who don’t use our air conditioner. In the hospital, they provide warming blankets, and I looked into having one of the machines in our house. The dryer doesn’t warm them enough, and I’m afraid an electric blanket will burn her if she keeps it on too long. It’s a no-win battle sometimes. Our condo is stifling, and sleep often evades me, especially when it’s hot.
On good days, my mom will get dressed, put on makeup, and go to lunch with friends, but those days are few and far between lately. I feel like her lack of motivation is being caused by some form of depression, and I’ve asked her to see a doctor, but she refuses. She’s stubborn and determined not to be a burden. I can’t get it through to her that she’s not a burden and I only want what’s best for her.
I gasp again when the calf stands, and Bruce hollers “woohoo” from around the corner. Over the next few days, this calf is going to be mischievous and will test Jambo as a mother. I already know that I’ll try to be down here as much as possible, even if it means giving up my lunch hour to spend time with mama and her baby.
“Yes, move toward your baby, Jambo,” I say, trying to encourage her to let the calf nurse. “Oh, Bruce, look.” I point as the baby latches on, much to the delight of all our staff. There’s a collective sigh among us, knowing that the first steps of motherhood have been taken by Jambo and were done so easily.
I choose to sit on the floor and rest my head against the wall, not ready to leave. Right now, I don’t care if I’m lacking sleep or my alarm will sound in a few hours. Everything I witnessed in the past couple of hours is giving me enough adrenaline to conquer whatever tasks lie ahead. Including the fact that, once the sun rises, the Boston Renegades will be here for media day, along with a hundred or so underprivileged third-graders from various schools in the area.
That alone should scare me into leaving, but it doesn’t. Sitting here, watching Jambo nurse her calf, is the most calm and peaceful I have felt in a long time, and right now I could use this heavy dose of this type of happy to get through everything I’m facing with my mother.
Chapter 3
Cooper
I dive into the swimming pool and stay under as long as I ca
n before I begin to stroke. Swimming is my way of loosening up my sore muscles and keeping them from getting strained. I can’t afford to get injured during spring training or not to be in the best shape of my career. Everyone is watching me. They’re waiting for me to come out and hit the shit out of the ball, or to fuck up. The critics out there are wagering on whether I can make it in the majors or not. They say Stone kept me in the minors for a reason, and now I have to prove them wrong. Their opinions shouldn’t matter, but they do.
With each lap I complete, my mind becomes clearer. My body cuts through the lukewarm water, creating a path so I can glide easily into my next stroke. This is the only time I have to myself before I’m “on.” Before I’m officially Cooper Bailey, Boston Renegade. I know it’s going to be different, with a lot more expectations, and for that I’m ready. I’m ready for what today is going to bring, with a whirlwind of activities, and I want to be my best. I want to stand out among my peers.
After the first day of conditioning I thought the guys like Davenport, Meyers, and Cross wouldn't talk to me again; however, they have and we continue to go through our workouts together. They’re making me feel welcomed, and I’ve even been razzed by Kidd with some off-the-cuff one-liners that had me bent over gasping for air because I was laughing so hard. But there are still some guys in the clubhouse that give me sideways glances. I get it. I just hope they know I have no control over who gets the starting spot—that is all determined by the performances of Bainbridge and myself, and in the hands of Cal Diamond.
I know in a semi-perfect world, Bainbridge and I would split the spot, but that doesn’t work for me. There are goals I want to achieve, accolades that I want to receive, and you can’t earn those if you’re sitting the bench for half the season. Part-time players don’t earn batting titles or the Gold Glove. And if I’m sitting the bench, I can kiss my Rookie of the Year nomination goodbye. I’m sure Bainbridge feels like he’s in a similar boat, perform or get benched. The difference is he’s been there before. He’s received the awards. It’s time to let the young ones take over.
I finish my laps and head back to the apartment. I’m sharing it with a couple of the other rookies, both of whom are just out of college. Technically this is my second year, but it’s my first in the majors. The guys I’m living with are straight out of college trying to make the forty-man roster. Last year I wasn’t even invited to spring training due to a late-season muscle tear that left me sidelined. My arm is good to go now. I’ve been working my tail off to make sure something like that doesn’t happen again.
As I climb the steps back to my place, I pause and look around the courtyard. This place is nice, nothing fancy, and it’s cheap. It’s what we can afford. We each get signing bonuses; mine was received last year, but that doesn’t means we’re rolling in the cash like the other guys, so we live on the inexpensive side. There used to be a time when the organization paid for the players’ housing and transportation. Athletes didn’t have to worry, unlike now. If it weren’t for me, the other two living with me would be catching the city bus or asking one of the other guys to pick them up. Luckily, I drove my car down here, but I won’t be it driving back. Once spring training ends here, we have a few games up north to play and we’ll be flying directly there.
After I get ready, the guys, Brock Wilder and Frankie Guerra, all pile into my car and we head to our training facility. There’s a coach bus waiting for us when we arrive. The other Renegades are all dressed similarly with khaki shorts, our red polo shirts, and ball caps. We don’t look much like baseball players, more like golfers.
I take a seat next to the window and pretend I’m interested in something in the parking lot. From my experience on team buses when I was a freshman in college, it’s best not to make eye contact with anyone. The last thing I want to see on anyone’s face is a look of disgust when I’m still trying to find my footing.